Deal with the Trancy
by Phantom Ou
Summary: Alois Trancy is in a competition with Ciel Phantomhive to see who will be the first to capture the notorious thief known as the Cat. To Alois, it should be a mere child's play to catch a 'kitty'. But upon encountering the mysterious Cat, he is soon to realize that things are not as simple as they had seemed.
1. Prologue

**Deal with the Trancy - Chapter 1: _Prologue_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

"Get back here!" the male villager roars in anger. I laugh while dashing away from his cottage. What is securely tucked under my arm is a prized possession—a majestic vase made of china. Tugging down on my mask to correct its loose position, I nimbly duck under a crevice of an old, abandoned building; my favorite escape route.

While in there, I move an obtruding table from the wall which, in turn, reveals a secret passageway that is relatively a tunnel. Slipping into the tunnel, I begin crawling into the dark area, careful not to damage the precious vase. I elbow my way forward, advancing inch by inch, while keeping my head low. Gradually, the ferocious cries of the man diminish in the distance, and a silence commences whereas the only thing that can be heard is the sound of my tight breathing.

After a while, an opening can be discerned from the other end. I clamber outside hastily, harboring a mild discomfort in small, restricted places, and stumble into my aunt's house. Grunting at the disgraceful entrance, I straighten and release a sigh of relief when I see that the vase is still in excellent condition, despite our rough venture.

Being in my aunt's house, a surge of warmth and comfort rejuvenates throughout my body, relaxing me from any previous tensions. The house is not big, I must admit, but it has a large enough capacity to fit in basic furniture and necessities such as a bed, a measly rug, a table, a couple of chairs, a dresser and a lamp. It is a shabby place with rotting wood and a thatched roof, along with a strange, damp scent in the air that lingers around for a few days after a rain shower. Nonetheless, it feels like home.

"Stole 'nother valuable somethin'?" My aunt blooms into view, having just returned from using the privy, I suspect, by the way she is adjusting her disheveled skirts. I peer into the familiar face that belongs to someone I love very much. She has untidy blonde hair cut negligently around her neck, one uneven tooth that juts out when she grins, and sparkly brown eyes that insinuate mischief.

I smile with pride swelling in my chest as I hold up the vase for display. "Ma'am, I present to you one of the most wondrous creations of mankind! Pay heed to the detailed imagery engraved onto this ceramic material-"

"Ok, cut to the chase," my aunt interrupts with an amused grin and taps her temple with her knuckles lightly. "The last thing I need is to confuse the ol' noggin' up here."

Smirking, I settle into a chair while casually holding the vase against the lamp. I study the pretty, artistic features of flowers and vines chased onto the hard surface of the vase. "I've been keeping my eyes on that man for a while now, lemme tell ya. I had thought—no, I just _knew_ that there's no way a villager as poor as him can stalk his way home with a big ol' goofy grin on his face. He was hiding something, my instincts could tell me that much. And what did it take?"

My aunt merely smiles and waits, knowing all too well that I was asking a rhetorical question that was spoken simply to apply a dramatic effect.

Two of my fingers thrust into the air in a flamboyant manner. "Two nights of patrol and I got that sucker nailed. He was hiding this sweetass thing that he smuggled from China." I delicately lay the vase onto the table so that we both can view and wallow in its captivating beauty.

My aunt extends her lips in a whistle whose tone indicates that she is wholesomely impressed. "Got to give it to ya, this is quite some big of a catch you got here. It's gotta be worth_fortunes_."

I snap my fingers for attention. "Way ahead of you, Aunt Peggy. I got a plan. Gonna meet up with some people and sell this vase for twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds? Whoo-ee, that's a load of money you're headin' for."

I shrug. "You and I gotta make a living, right?"

For once, my aunt seems to quiet down in a rather subdued manner. She appears pensive for a moment and retires in another chair, awkwardly scooting it closer to mine with a crook of her hand under the seat, edging it forward.

"We should talk—and get rid of that shady mask, for crying out loud, I'm trying to speak to my dear niece 'ere," my aunt mutters in her typical gruff and coarse voice. She snatches the mask from my face and offhandedly tosses it aside.

"Oi, careful with that!" I admonish, retrieving my cherished mask and placing it securely on my lap after it was cruelly thrown on the tabletop. "It's practically my signature. Everybody knows 'bout the 'Cat' that roams the streets at night to raid houses. You have to keep this mask in top condition."

Aunt Peggy sighs, "Yeah, yeah, it's real cool and all, but I really need to talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

She sighs again, frustrated this time, as if what she was implying is supposed to be obvious. Her large hand drags a loose bang from her face, and she continues, "'Bout you being so... you."

"Makes sense," I remark with a hint of sarcasm in my tone. "Still don't see what the problem is."

"You should know by now what I mean. You cannot just go about stealing things from other people—"

"You were fine with that before," I point out.

Aunt Peggy's eyes sparkle with a certain amusement that I can't quite define. "Well, of course, it's Peggy ya talkin' 'bout 'ere; she doesn't give two shut-ins 'bout morals 'cuz society is a damn waste anyway. Every man for himself is what I like to say."

"To justify your dirty acts," I finish, smiling at her odd, vernacular speech that I have adapted to over the years with her. "I'm sure Scotland Yard finds that oh, so very reasonable."

Aunt Peggy attempts—and fails—to suppress a bark of laughter. "Scotland Yard's a joke. I can be dancin' with my polka dots undies in front of 'em in public, and they won't move no muscle."

"Maybe 'cuz your butt is something worthy to admire over," I suggest.

"Well, it _is _quite firm and—"

I raise a hand to cut her off. "Too much information. Now you were saying 'bout...?"

"Oh, right! Aye, I was sayin' how although it's much too old for me to change my bad ways, maybe it's 'bout time you _stop_ stealin'."

"_What?_" I blurt in disbelief, standing up so impulsively that my knee bangs against the table, but I refuse to be fazed by the minor ache that has blossomed. "Peggy! This ain't like you at all! Are you ill today or something? Want medicine? I can jack some from the pharmacist next door."

Aunt Peggy exhales soundly, allowing for the discharge of breath to flap her lips. She rises to her feet in order to commensurate to my level, despite the fact that, as stout as she is, she still remains a whole head shorter than me.

"No, do I look like I caught a nasty cold? I'm perfectly fine. I'm probably reachin' that prime of life where your wisdom and reason just jump up a smidge, enough to think 'bout stuff when you're alone."

"What kind of... stuff?" I question slowly.

"Stuff like how..." She hesitates briefly while she ponders how to piece together her words efficiently. "Stuff like how in the past years, I might—just_ might_ have not been a whole lot of good influence on ya."

A scoff issues from my lips. "You gotta be kiddin' me, Aunt Peggy. _Not_ a good influence? Who taught me how to pick locks, how to crouch and sneak so stealthily, how to press for information from others? Who is the mastermind, I ask you, who has taught me how to escape in the most clandestine ways that it'd be a miracle before the dogs of the Queen can be so close as to halt me from taking one step further and lay a sword by my neck? Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it was none other than you, Mrs. Margaret, that has imparted me with such unprecedented knowledge!"

My aunt sighs, "As flattered as I am on half of the things that I actually understood of what you're saying, please—and I say this with love—shut up. Really, when you start goin' theatrical on me I get a huge headache."

My shoulders perform its usual response to things, where they raise and drop curtly in a lackluster mimic of a shrug. "Whatever. My point is you're the best role model anyone can ever wish for."

"Hardly," my aunt comments harshly. "Let's be realistic, it's been fun and all, but really, things have gotten too far. As first, you were a cute seven years old that ran around pickpocketin' stuff like coins or toys. Nowadays, you're the real deal, earnin' the name of 'Thieving Cat' or 'Cat with Claws' or whatever, and you rob nearly every one of my neighbors of the most expensive things that they own so that you can sell it off in some shady auction!"

My lips purse as I pretend to contemplate hard about it, and I tap my forefinger against my chin. "Point taken. I can see the difference."

Aunt Peggy groans, "You are not taking this seriously at all!"

I hold up both of my hands in defense. "Look, I just don't see what's the big deal to be sweating over, that's all. I mean, in all honesty, I only steal what is enough to provide what's vital like three meals a day, some change of clothes, and so on and so forth. The rest of the profit, of course, goes into something more beneficial... for instance, thievery equipment."

Her face flushes into a darker shade, and her eyes glint with solemnity. "You're delvin' deeper into the worse side of society. And trust me, that ain't gonna be pretty. You already got yer reputation so that means all sorts of people are tryin' to sniff you out. All it takes now is for ya to slip up a little bit, and the police will be skinnin' ya alive."

I can't help but snort at her pathetic scare tactic. "I'm not afraid of cops. You entrusted me with your skills as a thief. I'm pretty sure I can evade them."

"You ain't perfect, you're gonna slip up eventually if you continue these... these..."

"Wild and dangerous yet equally exciting excursions for fortune?" I suggest.

"I'm feelin' the urge to slap."

"Sorry," I say. "Habit from the... um, yeah..." I try to keep my wince to a minimum after stupidly implying to that other life I have. The last thing that I would want to do is to remind Aunt Peggy of that.

She, however, catches on to it, and her rigid expression thaws. "Oh, right," Aunt Peggy murmurs thoughtfully, "I've nearly forgotten. Now I really am a bad influence on you. Look, I've retired from being a petty thief a long ways ago. It's about time you do that to so that it won't... have, er, a negative effect on your other life 'cuz you know..."

I emit a loud groan and falter into my seat, covering my ears although it is an ineffectual act to drown out her clamorous voice. "I don't wanna hear it. Don't you dare say it."

"'Cuz you are a—"

"No, be quiet, be quiet!"

"A noble."

"Ugh, why did you have to go and say it!" My face exaggeratedly forms the expression of an afflicted person in utmost pain. "Why did you have to go and do this to me?" My fingers enclose around the front of my shirt, and I squeeze my eyes shut in what should appear to be grief.

My aunt twiddles with the ripped edges of her skirt. "Gosh, no wonder no one can ever tell you're a noble. You got the cute face and all, but you talk and act like tough ol' peasant who has a weird knack for the theatre. I personally don't see what's so bad 'bout living in luxury and havin' power over these damn wastelands."

At this, my eyelids flap open instantly, and I shoot forward from my seat in unrestrained joy that is derived from a spark of hope. "Not bad enough that you'll come back?" I ask, twisting my lips into a pleading smile.

Aunt Peggy rolls her eyes, not bothering to beat around the bush about it. "You know I'm not ever gonna come back. I left for a reason, I tell you I cannot stand that woman that your father decided to marry—"

"After my mum died, yeah," I say dully.

"Mm-hmm, and that hag of a woman thinks she can take the place of sister!"

"Is that the reason you left?" I inquire.

"No, not entirely," Aunt Peggy admits. "It's your dad. He gets on my nerves with the way he immediately drools over another pretty face after your mum died. Sickens me, that unfaithful fool—no offense to the daughter of the unfaithful fool."

"None taken," I answer smoothly. "'Cuz in all due fairness, I agree with ya. That's why I rarely ever speak with him. Which is another reason why you should come back. Do you realize how lonely I am in that palace? I always have to be that stupid girl that's so obedient, innocent and polite. You're practically the only one left who understands me."

"I get it, dear," she comforts. "If it makes you feel better, if you don't talk or make faces, you can pass as a true princess: girls who are vain and fragile."

"Strangely, I do not feel better."

Aunt Peggy chuckles. "Well, at least you got you some fine looks. Yer stepmum is flat-chested by the way, but you're pretty endowed, just like me." As if to demonstrate, she reaches out her hand to my chest, but I slap it away.

"Try to grope me again and"—I pat the table—"well, actually, I'm quite fond of this table. So if you try to grope me again, you'll find yourself one short of a table by tomorrow morning."

She lets out a hearty laugh. "For a thief to steal from her mentor. Ironic."

"Mm, and you know that I'm flat anyway." I jut out my lower lip in a pout to showcase my dissatisfaction. "Don't have to lie to make me feel better."

"Hey, so you still have some of that cuteness left in ya," she says with a grin.

My eyes wander back to the vase, while I punch her lightly in the arm for calling me cute. "Auntie... I don't think I want to give up being a thief just yet. There's just something _extraordinary_ being out there. The thrill and exhilaration when you know that you're on the brink of being caught but yet you can be renowned as one of the best if you're not. It's challenging... It keeps you alert and excited, particularly on that breathtaking moment when you lay your hands on what you desired for. Adrenaline rushes throughout you, and it leaves you feeling a tingle that is so intoxicating, you can't help but feel numb."

I pause for her to absorb all of that in. "And most of all, I feel_ free_ out there, Peggy. Free from hosting balls, from learning about arts and crafts, from squeezing myself in high-heels and plastering a fake smile on my lips. Out there, while I'm out there hunting for treasure... I feel invincible and in charge of my own life where others won't write it out for me." I gently cradle my cat mask in my hands. "That's why I can only be free at night. I don't want this last part of me to disappear as well."

A silence falls between us. It isn't a heavy, uncomfortable one though. It is one where we are both wistful, reflecting on the significant matters of life. I was not simply whining about wanting to keep being a thief, but rather, I was fighting to grasp onto the final part of me that has not disintegrated along with my childhood. That is the one thing that I am absolutely sure of.

A warm hand claps on my shoulder. "I understand. You do what you have to do."

The tensed muscles along my shoulders relax considerably. "Thank God, Aunt Peggy. I don't know what I would do—"

"But mind you, I'm not finished," Aunt Peggy intervenes, and a crooked smile aligns on her lips. Her chocolate eyes once again twinkle in playful delight, and she winks. "Just wait until you find someone you love. I can almost guarantee you that your thoughts now will change."

Reflexively, I gasp in a sudden mouthful of air and choke, "Did you just say—"

* * *

"Cat," Ciel Phantomhive, an adolescent boy, murmurs. He has bluish-black hair and startling eyes the color of the magnificent ocean, with the exception that one of them is sadly covered by an eyepatch. He dons on brand clothing, which justifies his prodigious occupation as an earl and also as Queen Victoria's Watchdog. As her Watchdog, his primary job is to ensure that the matters underground, which entail any crimes or atrocities, are not involved nor are they allowed to affect the regular society.

While relaxing in his leather chair, Ciel extends an arm over his desk to show a vague photo that was obviously taken in a rush. However, in the picture, one can still discern a suspicious figure who wears a mask that greatly resembles the features of a cat's face.

Sebastian Michaelis, Ciel's earnest butler—who is, by all means, not a typical one, but rather a demon—peers into the picture inquisitively, with one hand cupping his chin. "And may I ask for the significance of this photo?"

"Surely you should have heard of the 'Thieving—"

An impatient rap on his door effectively captures their attentions. "Cieeeeeeeeel!" a cheery voice rings out.

Ciel grumbles, apparently displeased by the expected company, "Come in."

And in bursts a youthful boy who possesses lustrous blond hair, with his bangs aligned to the side, and piercing sky-blue eyes. As always, his face manifests into a mischievous grin, and he is smartly dressed in a plum frock coat, accompanied by a pair of black shoes.

Without asking for permission, the boy lunges into a chair directly across from Ciel. He obtrusively sets his elbows onto the immaculate surface of the desk—Sebastian winces, as he has just cleaned that—and rests his face into his palms in mock interest. "So what's up? Ciel rarely ever calls me over, so this day must be very special!"

Ciel frowns, finding the other boy's nonchalance inappropriate at a time like this. "This is strictly business, Alois Trancy, and I advise that you treat it as such... Where is your butler?"

"Oh, Claude?" the boy addressed as Alois chimes. "I told him to wait outside in the carriage. All he ever does is mutely stare at something anyway, so what's the point of him being here?" He smiles sweetly at Ciel. "His only purpose is protection, really, but I don't think that's necessary right now 'cuz Ciel will never do anything to hurt me, right?"

"I'm feeling the urge to do so, so be quiet and let us commence."

Alois does not seem exactly pleased with the content of the sentence. "Why do you always speak like you're in your forties?"

The other boy's face contorts into a sullen scowl, indicative that he is ill-humored.

"Fine, fine, in your late thirties!" Alois corrects himself, throwing his hands up to show that he surrenders.

Ciel appears to have disposed of Alois' impertinent comment from his mind, and he silently holds up the blurry photo of the 'Cat'.

Alois plucks it from his hand in a negligent manner, while keeping his left elbow rooted onto the desk so that his respective palm can support the weight of his cheek. His sky-blue eyes scan the picture, and the gleam in them gradually diminishes as he fails to find something of interest. "What the hell is this?"

"The Cat," Ciel responds tersely.

"Looks more like a person to me," Alois observes.

Ciel shakes his head wearily. "I did not mean it literally. Yes, it is a person, and whoever this person is, he is commonly known as the 'Cat', because he is sly and only wanders at night. What he does is he steal—but not inconsequentially so, or I would leave this to the incompetent Yard to handle. No, he is a professional, and for countless of times he has managed to steal valuables from an entire village and some areas of London itself. Irrefutably, he makes a huge fortune out of them."

"Hmm~" Alois hums thoughtfully and stares at the sole thing that is prominent: the wearer's mask. It is completely white, in exception to the breaches engraved on it to form two eyes, a button nose and a mouth. Whiskers are drawn along its cheeks, and there is even a pair of cute, little cat ears that extends from the top. "How are we so sure that it's a guy?"

"Does that matter?" Ciel retorts curtly, his patience thinning by the minute, which naturally occurs whenever he is in the company of Alois. "The gender is not important; what's important is catching the thief. The Queen worries for the safety of society if this thief is allowed to continue. We must put an end to his bad conducts before it gets worse."

"Maybe the Queenie is just scared that the Cat will steal some of her pearls," Alois suggests in a carefree manner, and when Ciel scowls, he adds, "Kidding, Ciel. No need to get your panties in a twist. The Queenie is a good guy who only does things for the welfare of all, blah blah, and we're to help her, blah blah blah. I can recite this a thousand times if you like, if only it wasn't already recited a billion times before me. I hear the same shit everyday."

The other boy, as usual, ignores Alois' remarks which tie in greatly with his insouciant nature, and informs, "Well, the Queen requires the assistance of both the Watchdog and the Spider."

Alois smirks, but with none of his typical humor. The smirk is more accurately likened to a sneer. "Aw, can't the doggy just sniff out the kitty by itself?"

Ciel mirrors his smirk, but he intensifies the scorn behind it several degrees higher. "I was hoping you would say that. I take it that due to the context of what you said, you do not wish to assist me. Very well, I am very content with not having to drag along so heavy of a burden, such as the Spider. You will only slow down the investigation, Trancy."

Sebastian, who has safely stayed distant from the somewhat-of-a-quarrel discussion, is able to sense the oppressive tingle in the atmosphere; he can tell that a challenge is indirectly instilled, and tension has risen as a result.

Alois opts to maintain his facade of merriness and indifference for a while longer. He leans back on his seat, and a full-fledged smile forms on his lips, giving him a devilish look rather than a friendly one. Honestly, Ciel has not expected him to be so casual since his pride is being threatened here; if Ciel was in his shoes, he certainly would not have been able to abstain from regaining it.

"That's wonderful, Ciel," Alois comments with a wide grin. "We don't have to work together then. I'd rather die before I'd have to collaborate with an irksome guy like you who doesn't know how to have fun at all. Instead of working together, what do you say about a competition?" He has piqued Ciel's interest there, he knows, judging by the way that the latter's single visible eye lights up at the sound of that word—Ciel is exceedingly competitive, and he pines to uphold his dignity by acquiring victory at practically everything.

_Sadly, your ego will take a blow this time, because I plan to win. _Alois offhandedly flickers the photo back onto Ciel's table, and taps the figure on it. "Why don't we compete to see who will catch this thief and present him to the Queen first?"

The younger boy's sinister smile appears, and Alois is aware that he is favoring what he hears. "And if one of us wins...?" Ciel asks.

"Then the loser will have to compensate, of course," Alois simplistically replies. "If I win, you"—he points a finger directly at Ciel for the sake of prominence—"will become my lovely slave for a whole month. And if I lose, well then, it's vice versa."

Ciel does not hesitate to offer his hand. "Deal."

Alois inwardly scoffs at Ciel's arrogance; he has brushed off Alois' punishment easily, strung up on the thought that he will win anyway, hence Alois' threats are irrelevant. That only serves to provoke Alois further—he has to start teaching this boy a lesson about humiliation. Just thinking about the various _ways _and _methods _he can use to subject Ciel to pain is enough to get him excited.

With a beam, Alois takes Ciel's hand to shake it.

The bet is established.

* * *

"M-marriage?" I cough through my mouthful of food.

My stepmother smiles tightly, in an attempt to be benign, and hands me a napkin to wipe my mouth. "Yes, dear. You are turning the age of fifteen quite soon. Perhaps you should begin to consider some likely candidates...?"

_Hell no! _is what I wanted to say, but I suppress the level of disdain to a minimum and force the muscles around my mouth to twitch into a polite smile. "No, ah... M... Mother..." I start carefully, hoping that she has not caught my blunder while I tried to refer to her as my mother.

While I contemplate my next words, my 'mother' remains quiet and courteous. She is a beautiful woman, admittedly, who is the most refined in manners, compared to the other brutes I have encountered on the dilapidated, rural village my aunt lives in, located on the outskirts of London. My 'mother' has long, orange hair that curls along her shoulders and cascades down to her back. She possesses vibrant, green eyes that depict vanity—she absolutely adores her own appearance, and I can tell that much by how she pours herself over the mirror.

Nonetheless, she seldom attempts to start a conversation with me, which I am thankful for since the last thing I want to do is to grow close to her. Because of her lack of effort toward communication, I must say, never will she be the replacement of my own mother, but she suffices as mediocre.

"I believe that... this is not the time yet," I continue. "I am still naive; I have much to learn. Maybe we should... delay this..." _By ten years? _"By a few years, give or take a few." _Give, definitely._

"Don't be ridiculous!" a loud, booming voice echos in the dining hall, and it is soon accompanied by thundering footsteps as the owner of the voice approaches us. It requires no participation of my sight; I can discern who is coming by the sound of his strongly audible voice.

And surely enough, a chubby man in his late forties stampedes here. He has cropped brown hair sprouting from his skull, and two orbs the color of brown as his eyes. Laugh lines are carved on the man's face, but do not be fooled—this man is quite patronizing and demanding, a highfalutin as my aunt words it, and is stubborn in making his point and expecting others to follow it.

This very man is my father.

My dad makes his way around the table to peck his wife's cheek softly, before he turns to me with a stern look on his face. "Lady Annabeth Fidelia Windsor!"

"Yes, sir?" I sigh, not bothering to input any effort to conceal the tedium doused in my tone.

"You cannot seriously be thinking that you are not going to get married soon! You have to! This is the duty of a woman—and it's about time that you grow up to be one!" my father scolds. As usual, his words come in one of my ears and out the other. I merely dawdle to respond, my fork nudging the corn in my plate along in a dilatory manner.

He does not take my silence very well. "Look at me in the eyes and speak when I'm addressing to you! Annabeth, are you developing the rebellious stage? I have heard about these _stages_!"

I hide my smirk by allowing my bangs to fall. If he is stressing out because he thinks I am being rebellious _now _simply by being quiet, then there is no doubt that his heart is in a world of trouble if he finds out about my true self at night.

"No, Father," I finally answer after jabbing the prongs of my silver fork into the defenseless corn. "I am simply inclined to the thought that I am too young—"

"Too young!" my dad shouts, bewildered. "You are reaching the prime of your life; there is no time to delay! In fact, I have already set up a date for you and this fine young prince."

I cannot contain the groan that escaped my lips. "No, please don't, Father."

"Do not worry, he is extremely handsome," my stepmother offers mirthfully and pats my hand in means to encourage. I pretend that I am reaching for my cup of drink so that I can snake out of her hold, which never fails to make me feel a certain discomfort.

"He is also extremely beneficial!" my father adds with palpable delight. "With his family's donations, which I'm sure is very generous, to the marriage, we'll be living like the Queen herself!"

My stepmother shoots him a warning glance, and he hastily says to correct his blunder, "Well, it's not about me—us, per se. It's about you, Annabeth, and it's about high time that you marry that prince."

My father's approval of some guy that I have never seen a shadow of before does little to relieve the indignation that courses in my veins. I detach myself from the conversation while trying to eschew from yelling. Regrettably, since I'm a noble, I am to remain elegant and gracious at all times or I'll never hear the end of their complaints. Notwithstanding, I absolutely refuse to get married. This is sudden, this is rushed, and although I am not one for romance, I prefer that I marry someone that I am truly in love with, and not some guy that my _dad_ should marry instead if he thinks the expected groom is so great and all.

"Are you listening, Annabeth?" my father barks harshly, retrieving me from my daze, and I look up at him. "Good, good, you are. Anyway, I needed to inform you that your date of yours is scheduled for tomorrow night. He is coming to our doorsteps himself, since he wishes to properly introduce himself. What a gentleman!"

"Wait, what?" I blurt, appalled. "You set me up in a blind date without my consent?"

"Why, of course," my father replies breezily. "That's the whole purpose of it being called a _blind_ date, is it not?"

Anger boils in my belly, gradually intensifying to a severe degree. Again, my life is being controlled by these two 'parental' figures. There is no freedom in this place, no way to express myself and who I am. Who am I if I'm merely going to manipulated like a _puppet _for these two's satisfactions? Worse of all, now my life is being restricted even further; I am forced to wed a stranger, no less, so that they can gain the benefits. I will once again spiral into an abyss of confinement.

If my aunt was able to read my thoughts she would, most definitely, scold me right now for saying things in such a poetic manner.

The thought of my aunt pricks a feeling of need in my heart. I want to get away from this place, I want to be enveloped by the night's darkness, to venture my way to my aunt's warmth. There is nothing here that I would care for. Despite my manor being filled with luxuries, it seems like a cold, desolate and barren prison.

My hands clench the frilly, tight dress that I was forced to sport on. I attempt to ignore the blisters along my feet, which are caused by the aggravating high-heels I have to wear.

_Everything is forced. Nothing is _me._ I have to a victim to these two—I have to obey their orders and wishes as if my own are nonexistent. And that's just... _sickening_._

As if to express my frustration further, my stomach churns with nausea, and my head aches while I listen—but not exactly heed—to their authoritative voices in the background. They seem to drawl on and on, and it is difficult to make much sense out of it. Out of the corner of my eyes, the walls themselves appear as though they closing in to trap me.

"The prince is gorgeous, you'll love him—"

"You must marry him—"

Their voices merge as they blabber and overlap one another, and I am unable to distinguish them from one another. Not that it matters though—it is still utterly repulsive to hear them, and how they impose their own desires on me and make them seem as if they were for my sake.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy living with him—"

"We receive profits out of this! You have to marry him—don't be selfish and do otherwise!"

"So, Annabeth, accept, dear—"

"Prepare, your wedding will be arranged sometime this month—"

"_What?_" I yell at my father. "This _month_? So soon? How could you decide so without my permission? This is my life we're talking about!"

His eyes fill with rage at my defiance, and he strikes me across the face with his fat palm. "Don't you dare act that way to me, you impertinent child!"

My stepmother calmly speaks, having not flinched or moved from her spot at all, "Now just listen to your father to avoid another beating. You know how I don't want you hurt."

_Then, bitch, why don't you do something about it? _I glower at her before returning my glare to my father.

"Is my daughter always like this?" he bellows. "Since when did she get so defiant? So rebellious? Have the world taken a dip for the worse? There is something about this day that is accursed, I forewarn you!"

_Huh, perhaps I inherited my melodrama from him._

An innumerable amount of snide remarks, derisive comments and insults are stored in the back of my head, but I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself. I had promised my mother a time before she passed away that I will be obedient. But that also means crawling back into their hideous, iron fists.

"F... Fine..." I relent in a half-whisper. "I'll do what you say..."

"Good!" my father approves with a sigh of relief.

My stepmother smiles. "Now _that's_ my little Annie."

_That does it._

My feet violently push against my floor so that the force would propel me to stand. I direct all my bitterness at target number one: my stepmother. I am not aware—nor do I care—about what expression must be written on my face right now, but it must have been scary, at the very least, since both of my so-called parents gasp.

I jab a shaky finger right at her face, feeling the anger within me accentuate to the point that I tremble. "You bitch! You have no right to call me Annie! Only my mother can! Only my _real_ mum can, do you understand?" I point at my father's face as well. "Neither can you," I growl heatedly. "Especially not _you_!"

I do not bother to wait until they absorb the astonishment they must be experiencing by my 'sudden' pugnacious behavior. I storm out of the manor's double doors and circle around the back. Sticking my hand into a bush, I take hold of an object and retrieve it, uncovering it as my cat mask.

_This is all I need._

Sounds of guards pursuing me ignite in the air. From within the building, my father hysterically shouts about how horrible I am as a daughter, and blah, blah, blah.

_I don't give two shits right now._

Soon, my mask is rightfully placed upon my face. My legs mount the windows, which project from the wall, in order to climb. Once higher up, I latch onto the eaves of the roof and haul myself up and over. After successfully landing on the roof, I advance forward, jumping onto the other houses' rooftops.

The cool night breeze flutters my dress and ripples my skin with goosebumps, but I accept it graciously, breathing in what I like to call 'freedom'. I continue to run, watching as the luminous moon hover in the beautiful night sky.

* * *

The following morning arrives, and the moment that I awaken, my aunt passes me a change of clothes. "'ere," she says gruffly.

My head bobs once to show my gratefulness, and I hurry to change out of my stupid dress. After doing so, I dump that garbage aside and settle on a chair to admire the vase that I had stolen yesterday.

My fingers trace the embroidery on the vase. _Surprising how so much can happen in one day, _I think, remembering about the wedding arrangement. I had told Aunt Peggy all about the incident, and she had been spouting curses for hours, calling my father and my stepmother rotten.

When nighttime sets in, I prepare to depart again, dressed in my typical thief's attire, which consists of comfortable rags and the cat mask. The vase is concealed by a bag that I ensconce by tucking it securely under my arm. As I am leaving out the front door, my aunt insists that I should stop this criminal acts, but I ignore it so and bid her goodnight.

I wander the streets of the village and do not spare a breath to conceal myself; I'm practically inconspicuous with the night sky blanketing the area. Slipping into one of the alleyways, I maneuver and reach a stairway stationed behind a bundle of hay.

My hand stretches out to brush the hay from the entrance, and I descend the ramshackle staircase, arriving at a meek, shabby and nearly bare room that contains a table and two chairs in the center.

One of the chairs is occupied by a man who has his face hidden behind a top hat. The only notion that he is awake, or alive for that matter, is the fact that he has nodded slightly upon my arrival.

Smirking beneath my own mask, I sit down on the other chair across from him. I tend to proceed without tenacity, particularly since this is 'business', so to speak, and quickly unravel the vase from its bag. "This is what you wanted, correct?"

The man raises his head a notch to study the vase before tucking his chin back down to his chest. "Yes," comes his soft response.

"Now, man, are we strangers?" I ask. "I know we aren't exactly close, but we are business partners. Why're you hidin' your face so much?"

"Well, now, aren't you wearing a mask yourself?" the man retaliates, and I detect a smirk in his tone. "Perhaps we are conducting business, but if you are not gracious enough to reveal your identity to me and assert your trust, then I will do the same and be as ungraceful as possible, you see."

I smile. "Point taken. Anyhoo, onto business." My fingers sweep across midair, gesturing at the vase. "You like what you see here? You can have it for twenty pounds."

"Indeed."

The man sluggishly lifts his gloved hand and inserts it into the confines of his long black coat. On instinct, my hands twitch against my sides, and they begin to tap the surface of my seat, while I impatiently wait for the man to take hold of his money.

_Hurry, man. I prefer to not be late for a late night supper with Aunt Peggy. Her stew is righteous, to say the least._

The man withdraws his hand from his coat, and I incline slightly, my eyes blazing for the expected gold in his palm.

But what he has pulled out is different:

The man reveals four pieces of silverware—all of them, _knives_.

Before my mind can process it, he retracts his hand, with the knives slipped between each of his fingers, and flings them toward my face.

"Shit!"

Pushing against my chair, I throw my neck back so that my face is directed at the ceiling. The knives sail past me in a blink of an eye—I had just _narrowly_ avoided the impact. Still fazed by the unexpected attack, a bewildered look is all that I can manage.

The man stands up from his seat and takes off his hat to disclose a shock of black hair and a stunning pair of red eyes. "I am sorry," he speaks, although in his calm and emotionless tone, no means of apology can be detected, "but you will have to come with me."

My body stiffens for a cold second, as he takes a step around the table dividing us. Thinking fast, my hands clasp around my precious vase, and my right leg tips the table toward him. "Like hell I would!" I yell and dash madly for the stairs and back into the alleyway.

My ears distinguish the sound of footsteps, which flags of pursuit, and I risk peering over my shoulder to see that the man is right behind my heels. Apparently, the capsized table has little to no effect.

I dive into an awkward somersault, while trying to keep my vase from damage, and snatch an abandoned broom from the ground. Performing a violent turn, I swing the broom turbulently. The man blocks my attack with another one of his silver knives, and with one press of his blade, the broom snaps in half. My eyes widen at the unbelievable strength the man beholds.

But, it is not like I can stand there and admire all day.

I hastily devise a counterattack, stooping low and swiping my left leg at his feet with the intention of tripping him. He smoothly leaps from his position, without needing to remove his concentration from me in the slightest, and tosses another knife at a point-blank range.

"Aah!" an embarrassing squeal escapes from the heart of my throat (which I will later edit out if I ever have a chance to retell this story), and I clumsily lunge to the side, the knife managing to nick the side of my mask. Rolling onto my feet, I mentally curse to have to hold on to this burdensome vase. (Yes, when I'm sitting down by a candlelight, having tea, the vase is beautiful. But if I'm in the middle of a fight against a man with a hundred sharp knives and bizarre strength, the vase can be damned for all I friggin' care.)

The man springs toward me again, and I resort to a dirty trick: kicking up dirt.

With one strong kick, I propel a large clump of dirt at his face, temporarily blinding him. Not wasting any more time than necessary, I jump onto the top of one of the brick walls that border the alleyway. From there, my legs zip forward while I pay careful concentration so that I will not fall.

He follows me in a flash.

A gasp, followed by a deep sense of danger, ensue when I feel his presence _extremely_ close to my heels. I leap, whirling my leg around a full circle, but it connects to nothing but thin air.

"Shit!" I exclaim and scan the area for any sign of that mysterious man.

Then, an enigmatic object causes the air to tighten behind me—something is coming at a really fast speed.

I spin around in the nick of time and manage to enclose my palms around the knife, but the strong force causes me to stumble a few steps back, nonetheless.

"Impressive reflexes," the man muses, appearing from the shadows. "You are quite nimble. You've successfully conveyed your reputation as a Cat, so it seems."

"You're not too shabby yourself," I comment, watching him warily just in case he plans to perform another hostile move. "Who are you really? Do you work for the Yard?"

"No, I work for my young master."

Before I can question this, he flings another knife at me (does he possess an innumerable supply of silverware?), and the weapon I confiscated raises to meet his in order to deflect it.

I then turn around and flee—as mortifying as it is to run away from a fight, I am no match for this guy. He is unparalleled, basically, in terms of strength and agility, and in order to survive, I must discover an escape route as quickly as possible.

Pulling myself along the edge, I perform a swift and unpredictable slip down from the wall with as much speed as I can muster, which results to some nasty cuts along the back of my legs—but no matter.

I continue to run, twisting and turning around the alleyways that appear to be a labyrinth, despite having walked in these very areas for most of my life. During desperate times, things seem to play against you.

Finally, the outskirts of the village draw near, and I advance to the wide, open field. This is not a good choice, but seeing that I have no other options at the moment, the choice can very well be perceived as my only chance.

My heartbeat thuds against my chest at an erratic pace. My lungs burn and urge me to relent the running and take a breather—but that is out of the question. As long as I keep running, for like a mile or so more, I will arrive at a relatively dense forest, and there, I can work on concealing myself from the man.

Speaking of which, I have not heard the man for quite a while now. Although fully aware that his sudden absence can very well be a deception, my fatigue kicks in with a crippling power, and I slow down until I am, more or less, in a jog.

However, victory does not come easy; before me, about several feet away, the man manifests into view, and I skid into a hasty stop. Instead of heading for the forest, I proceed to my right, heading directly for the cliff.

Now typically, a cliff is an omen for peril, but this time, I plan to make it work to my advantage. I abruptly stop before the cliff and spin around to face him, taunting him to come. Once he engages in a hand-to-hand combat with me, one misstep and down and under he'll go.

However, without sparing any hesitation at my queer movements as I have anticipated, the man tosses three more knives at me, and while I am working to block all of them, he lunges from his position like a bullet.

Calling him 'fast' does not do him justice in the slightest. He is phenomenal, he is beyond realistic terms. I can barely even react, and there he is, right in front of me.

"Dammit—"

The man twirls a knife around his fingers before bringing it across my face, drawing a gruesome slash along my mask. My heart freezes at the moment that my precious mask is cut.

He makes use of my opening and reaches to pull away my mask, to reveal my identity.

"No—" my scream is cut off short when I, while trying to evade him, jump back. My feet lose their balance as they slide against the edge of the cliff. Before either of us can react, I am hurled down the cliff.

The man lunges forward, offering his hand. It manages to clasp around my baggy trousers, but the force of the fall causes me to slip out of his grip, and I plummet downwards at a terrifying speed.

No words can escape my lips, with the intensity of the force stealing my breaths. My hands, outstretched, claw uselessly at the air, desperately trying to grab onto something, anything at all. The pressure from the increasing speed weighs heavily against my chest, and my eyes can only capture eccentric blurs.

_Is this the end?_

Then, darkness consumes me.

* * *

The evening is going as normally as Hannah Anafeloz expects it would. She has helped serve supper, suffered from abuse from her master, Alois Trancy, and retreated to her own hobby: gardening. Although in all due fairness, she does not care for gardening in particular, but rather, she exclusively plans to nurture the resplendent bluebells healthily blooming in the backyard.

And thus, the evening proceeds as follows: she waters and tends to the plants, pulls out obstructing weeds, and at last, she sits beside the bushes of bluebells to relax.

But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the evening takes a drastic turn.

A shadow looms over her and the bushes, growing closer at an exceedingly rapid speed. She extends her arms as swiftly as possible to protect the bushes from harm, and ends up carrying the weight of a human.

To be more precise, she has only managed to catch the upper part of the human, that is the head and neck. The rest of the human's body has landed on the bushes and crushed the bluebells.

Hannah emits an irritated sigh before sparing a good look at the human—who is apparently unconscious by the inexplicable fall. He or she has long brown hair and rags for clothing. In the crook of its arm, the human holds a vase which has crumbled to pieces at the impact of the fall.

But what piques her interest the most is the human's face. On it are remnants of a mask that look like...

A cat?

She concludes that sitting there, with her arms awkwardly extended for the human's head to rest on, will do little to quash all the questions that is circulating around her head. Hence, Hannah decides it will be best if she presents this strange human to her master.

She stands up slowly and drags the human's limp body along as she makes her way into the Trancy manor.


	2. The Trancy

**Deal with the Trancy - Chapter 2: _The Trancy_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

Ciel is absolutely sure that he has mistaken what he just heard and inclines from his seat with the intention of hearing better. "What?" comes his incredulous voice.

"The Cat is gone," Sebastian, his butler, repeats in a profoundly calm manner while in the presence of the noble—this mannerism can either be admirable or vexing. "The Cat has escaped, or rather, he has fallen down from a cliff. Surely that fall has got to be detrimental for the likes of humans; humans' delicate bodies will not have been able to sustain from that fall."

Sebastian, who is a demon, is far more surpassed in terms of endurance, strength, agility, and their capabilities over a wide range of subjects, such as the culinary arts, are unprecedented to say the least. However, that also results to his kind harboring a sense of superiority over 'weak' and 'meager' humans, as they describe it, which Ciel is not particularly happy with, but chooses to look past this little detail on most occasions so that they can finish with their task at hand.

"So in other words you failed," Ciel offers, the tone in his voice indicating disbelief and dissatisfaction. If he knows Sebastian, it is that Sebastian _never_ fails at anything. No matter how difficult the tasks Ciel assigns for him, the demon butler would always, invariably accomplish at fulfilling it. His string of successes has remained consistent over these last few years—perhaps that is why Ciel is so trusting on the idea that Sebastian will never let him down. It disgusts Ciel to think that by arrogantly wallowing in his butler's achievements, he has deluded his own mind and followed the childlike belief that Sebastian can do anything, remove any obstacle and repair any mishaps.

Apparently, he is wrong.

"This failure will not go without some consequences," the young master warns, curving his fingers around the handle of a teacup set before him. He brings it to his lips and takes a small sip, allowing for the delectable flavor and aroma of the Earl Grey tea to travel into his mouth and settle at the pit of his stomach.

After a brief analysis of the situation, Ciel sighs, "Well, I do suppose one thing. If the Cat is, in the end, terminated and erased from existence at long last, then the Queen should be satisfied. I will report to her about this news." His expression darkens when he gazes at his butler. "However, I will be sure to not converse about your failure to bring the Cat here for interrogation; that humiliation, I prefer to avoid."

A slightly sardonic smirk cracks onto the surface of Sebastian's expressionless face. "Indeed, young master." Nothing more is needed to be stated.

Ciel allows for his mind to drift from the forsaken conversation and peers out the glass window from behind his study desk. The Phantomhive manor's vast front yard lies out to greet his eyes with depictions of healthy trees, flowers, bushes and a huge fountain near the staircase that leads up to the entrance of the manor.

Moments elapse by before Ciel retires back into his chair with somewhat of a dismayed sigh and sulk of shoulders.

"This is not fun."

"Pardon, young master?" Sebastian asks, split between whether or not to feel a spark of intrigue or be overwhelmed by wonder. Since all of his years with Ciel, he has been taught well that Ciel does not favor anything 'fun' or 'entertaining' (unless, of course, it is a life-or-death gamble or an artful competition). He is far too busy as an Earl, and frankly, he chooses not to indulge in any activity that instills amusement for he rather dedicate himself to work. It is quite difficult at times to retain in one's mind that Ciel is merely thirteen years old.

"This is not fun," the young Earl repeats quietly, "if the bet is to be called off so easily. There should at least be a winner."

Ah, the bet. It was formulated between Ciel and Alois the last time that they have met. The bet requires that one catch the Cat and deliver him to the Queen prior before their opponent does so.

"Fourteen days," Ciel murmurs with a hint of pessimism in his tone. "In fourteen days, Queen Victoria will return from her visit to India. I will have to meet up with her in London, empty-handed. Not only is there no winner, but the mission is unaccomplished."

"However," Sebastian speaks up, "the Cat's fall to death does not necessarily constitutes to the notion that there lacks a victory from either side. Quite simply put, the Cat has died after a misstep, influenced by yours truly. That should certainly be accountable for something; I, your butler, have produced the Cat's death so, in other words, you have reached the Cat before Alois Trancy has. Needless to say, the Queen planned to dispose of the Cat once he is delivered, so the outcome of the Cat does not affect the situation at hand at all. You have won the bet."

A short duration of silence plagues the air before Ciel smirks. "I admit you do have a point. Regrettably, this is an unsatisfying way to win—but, certainly, having Trancy as my slave will quell that slight displeasure. Very well, I accept my victory. Unless the Cat has somehow miraculously survived that fall from the cliff, I will reign over Trancy."

* * *

"M-Master," Hannah's barely audible and tentative voice wavers as she addressed her dear master, Alois Trancy.

Alois is having supper at the moment; evidently, he has not left the dining table even when she retreated to the garden in the backyard.

He is midway in dissecting his chicken. It is clear that he is not particularly hungry that evening, but called for a meal anyway so that he can perform experiments on it—not scientific and constructive ones though, mind you, but experiments that entail for him to cleave shreds through his food with a knife and fork, for the purpose of filling up the abundant amount of time he has.

Alois glances up at Hannah sharply, and his piercing sky-blue eyes glare at her with such intensity that she flinches and takes a palpable step back.

Which he witnesses.

The young boy's face contorts into a sneer, and he waves his fork at her. "Why did you step back from me, Hannah? Am I ugly to you, whore? Or am I smelly? Repulsive?"

Hannah averts her gaze to the ground when her instincts flare that she is in a tight situation. Typically when she is being put on the spot like this, she would cower and accept beating from him until he grows bored.

She swallows down a lump that has manifested in the heart of her throat and manages a whisper, "N-no, Mas—"

"Really?" Alois interrupts. "Because I think I am disgusting to you. That's why you won't look at me. Isn't that right, Hannah?"

"Master..." Hannah starts hesitantly. She genuinely is trying to explain, but always finds herself in a struggle when he begins to demand and interrogate so that he can elicit faster and more diverting responses from her—which usually ends in physical abuse. "I am... not dis... disgusted—"

"Then why won't you look at me in the face?" Alois questions, his voice increasingly forceful.

Her eyes remain fixed on the ground; she cannot gather the courage to lift them and meet his daunting eyes that hold no trace of mercy, characterizing his vehement incline toward violence.

"I..."

"I can't hear you, slut!" He suddenly stands up from his seat. The danger level that her instincts warned her of peaks, and Hannah cannot restrain herself from recoiling back another step.

Yet another mistake.

"So I _am_ disgusting to you," Alois sneers.

His footsteps draw near to her, rancor reeking in each of his movements. She squeezes her eyes shut when the sight of his shoes protrudes into her view of the ground.

Hannah attempts to withdraw, but she is roughly pushed against the wall. She feels his fingers clasp around her jawline, and with a strong snap of his hand, he lifts her chin, and she is forced to open her eyes. When the darkness that encompasses from the shields of her eyelids disperses, Hannah finds herself staring into the eyes of her master.

"Am I revolting to you now that I'm up close?" he inquires, his fingers tightly holding onto her chin. His other hand raises from his side to rest on her stomach. "Did the feeling of nausea deepen, Hannah?"

She decides that it is best to distract her master from the topic at hand, since obviously he is still does not plan to release her even if she denies of feeling any nausea; years of experience have enlightened her well of his malicious antics.

"There is someone..." Hannah murmurs, glad that he should at least be able to hear her faint voice from the small extent of space separating them. Her speech trails off when her already low confidence diminishes as more time passes with her staring into the devious eyes. She allows herself to avert her gaze to his collarbone—looking anywhere distant from his face should be sufficient enough to form a sentence without pausing or stuttering _too_ incomprehensibly.

"There is someone I found," she finally finishes.

"In your bed, whore?" Alois suggests with a derisive smirk. He has not lessen the pressure on her chin at all.

She removes herself from the cutting remark by choosing to neglect it, and states, "In the backyard."

Her master does not seem fazed, but then again, it is hard to decipher what her master is thinking. "Hm, alive or dead?"

"Alive, I believe. But unconscious."

"And where is that someone you found now?"

"I temporarily placed him in the hallway. I shall bring him inside the dining hall." Hannah has managed to say this with ease, since it only requires for her show of acquiesce, and that she has no problem demonstrating due to her decision made long ago to wholeheartedly submit herself to him.

"No need for that," Alois says. "I'll go with you."

"W-why?" She secretly winces for asking such a thing; normally she is to obey without question, but this time, it really strikes her with curiosity of why he wants to accompany her. He performs strange, unpredictable things at random times.

"Because, dear Hannah," he starts, tightening his grip on her chin until she winces aloud, "someone has to protect my lovely whore of a maid from danger in case that person happens to wake up and attack." He barks out a cruel laugh after reading her surprised expression. "How happy you look, Hannah~ Do you really favor the idea of me caring for you?"

Alois releases her at last and allows for her to pluck herself from the wall. "Now lead the way, bitch."

* * *

Hannah leads him out of the dining hall and into the tremendous hallway. Torches align in each side of the walls, that are made from dark wood panels. The hallway branches off to different corridors which act as guides to other areas of the manor. If one unfamiliar with this place is to weave along these hallways, undoubtedly, they will get lost in the 'maze'.

His maid stops before a person that is laid flat on the ground. At first, Alois dismisses this person as someone insignificant after inspecting the rags he wore. But then his whole body locks down entirely at the sight of what is on the person's face: broken parts of a mask that when if pieced together, it would form the outward show of a cat's face.

Hannah sneakily glances toward his direction, but Alois has grown all too common with her tricks and imposes on himself to empty his expression from any shock. He does not need for that bitch to pin something upon him as a 'weakness'.

However, he cannot keep his heart from thudding within his chest. The feeling of suspense swells inside him as he stoops to a level lower to be nearer to the seemingly devoid of consciousness person.

After a closer scrutiny, Alois can make out the fit and well-shaped figure of the person, presumably so because of regular exercise. There is no mistaking it now; that person must be the 'Cat'.

Part of him wants to dash to Claude to tell him to prepare a carriage so that he can thunder his way to Ciel's manor and rub it in that he has caught the 'Cat'. The other part of him, however, wants to rip that hindering mask out of the way so that he can peer into the real identity of the Cat.

Notwithstanding, he performs neither of those actions at the moment and stays rooted onto the ground, dumbstruck. He is astounded by how something that he has been looking for (well, he knows that he hasn't been exactly pouring his blood and sweat to find the Cat, but his objective is still to locate the Cat nonetheless) has appeared right as his doorsteps. Or rather, at his backyard.

"How... did you find him?" Alois speaks slowly, with none of the satire he overuses on a daily basis.

If Hannah was astonished by his sudden reserved nature, she is smart enough not to display it, and answers, "She landed from the sky."

Now that ridiculous statement is what snaps Alois out of his daze, and he spins around to meet her. "What?"

Hannah teeters with discomfort at his incisive gaze. "It is true. She has fallen out of the sky and crashed into the garden."

"How's that even possible?" Alois asks, but does so rhetorically and not in a demanding tone as he figures Hannah is telling the truth. Although he hates her guts deeply, even he is aware of the fact that Hannah would never lie to him—hell, she can barely even make a paragraph without stuttering.

He remains pensive for a while before catching onto something that was rather tenuous before, "Why're you referring to that person over there as 'she'?"

His maid blinks, obviously not expecting this kind of question. "Th-that is because that person there is a female."

"It _is_? How do you know?"

Hannah shies away at this. "T-to be honest, I just assumed so... I had never expected her to be the opposite sex. The hips are too defined and... her upper torso does include..."

Alois inspects the person's body more intently, and with Hannah's conception, he is able to acknowledge that the person does have breasts—but barely so which initiates a laughter from him. "She's flat~ Our chests can almost be similar." He peers to his side at Hannah's endowed chest and rolls his eyes. "And yours humongous, of course, slut."

She does not respond (as usual) which brings an end to the conversation about breasts. A silence befalls while they study the person some more, and then Alois chirps up, "I want to see her face!"

He scoots near the person and puts his hands over the mask. "Ready, Hannah?"

She nods once.

In truth, Alois cannot care less about whether she is 'prepared' or not to see what is behind the mask. He rips it away from the person's face in less than a millisecond.

The mask fragments clatter to the ground where he tossed them. He peers eagerly into the face—

Of a girl, indeed. There are noticeable feminine features; long eyelashes and a small, round face. She possesses full lips and a cute button nose similar to an actual cat. Her messy brown hair flows from her scalp down to the middle of her back, and it glints in the light in a way that indicated that it has used to be considerably silky.

Somehow these details do not correspond with her being a thief.

"She doesn't seem to be like some peasant to me..." Alois murmurs, mostly to himself, and then cocks his head back to Hannah. "She's cute, Hannah. I wanna keep her."

He feels his nerves perk at the thought of presenting this girl to the Queen—no, he is more chiefly concerned over the fact that Ciel will soon to be his _slave_. How invigorating!

"Claude!" Alois calls tersely, and instantly, his butler appears by his side. Claude is a tall man with black hair and golden eyes shielded by a pair of glasses. He is smartly dressed in a dark suit and leather shoes, his typical attire.

"I've discovered the Cat!" Alois declares with jubilation. He sneaks a glance at Hannah to see if she will speak up and reclaim credit, but, as expected, she remains quiet and detached.

But who cares about her?

"Excellent," his butler comments in his signature dull tone accompanied by his deadpanned expression. He blinks once at the Cat on the ground to show his acknowledgement before returning to his usual stance; shoulders straight and face apathetic.

It feels like someone has died in here rather than achieving something noteworthy. "Why do I even bother to tell you anything? You're so boring," Alois mutters bluntly, though it holds no effect over his butler, who continues to stare straight ahead. He turns to Hannah, having grown disinterested in provoking his mundane statue of a butler, "Ugly hag, go clean up this pretty girl. Make sure she takes a shower because she kinda reeks, and make sure you tend to her wounds if she has any. If she happens to wake up, inform me immediately."

"Y-yes, Master."

* * *

After peeling off the rags soiled with dirt and numerous holes, Hannah dips the unconscious girl in a warm tub. She scrubs the girl clean of the filthy substance, and wraps a towel around her to dry her off.

The maid allows for a tedious sigh, that has remained trapped within her, to release. This is not what she has expected her master to do; typically Alois would have Claude dispose of the body. Yet this time, her master seems to harbor a deep interest for this one certain girl. She yearns to ask why, but that would have resulted to a slap in her face; besides, he does not find it pleasing to tell her anything that involves him and his affairs.

And now, with no explanation at all, Hannah has developed into the caretaker of this girl. Simple days are scarce, and basically impossible, when Alois is in charge.

Soon, she concludes that the girl is adequately dried and dresses her with one of her own clothing—since there is no one else in this household that is female, so Hannah's clothes will have to suffice.

After completing those tasks, the maid lays her in the guest bedroom and plops herself on a chair nearby. And then she waits.

* * *

Hannah is not aware of how much time has passed—probably a few hours or so. Nevertheless, night transpires, and gradually, all of the lights dim or cease altogether; one of Claude's nightly duties.

After several more seconds elapsed, Hannah finalizes that the queer girl will not awaken, at least not until the following morning. She conceives that it will be fine if she can take a stroll out to the garden; there is much to do to clean up the mess this girl caused by falling onto it.

Hannah rises from her seat and peers at the lifeless figure strewed on the bed one last time before departing from the room.

* * *

I wait until the stranger leaves the room before jumping out the bed. I have been wide awake for at least an hour. When consciousness had first replenished, the unknown person was already seated beside me. Even in the darkness of the room, it is perceivable that the person is a woman with long, flowing lavender hair, and one of her eyes is inexplicably bandaged.

Abiding to the concept of common sense, it is easy to realize that she was sent to guard me, and thus, the only way to escape is to wait until she slackens on her vigil over me. Logically, she has a weapon with her, so it would be stupid and reckless to come lunging and strangling her.

During my time awake and silent, I tried to recall the unfortunate turn of events. I was pinned by some mysterious guy near a cliff and overwhelmed by his aberrant capability as a fighter. Deplorably, while attempting to evade him, my balance was lost, and I went hurling down the cliff at a ghastly speed.

And yet I wind up alive. It's a wonder how I managed to survive.

After inspecting my new clothes and testing out my bodily responses by flexing and stretching my limbs, I conclude that I'm in a well condition, despite having fallen hazardously earlier. Whoever that guarded me, admittedly, did nothing to harm me so far, but instead, they have benignly provided me with an immaculate garment to wear.

A snicker rumble from my throat lowly. If they have planned to get it back, they'd be disappointed.

I peer around the room once more, feeling as though I'm missing something important. My mind click to place as I recall my majestic vase! Have they robbed it from me, whoever had provided me with hospitality?

But that mystery will have to be solved later. Priority number one: to get out of here. I would have liked to leave a note of gratitude, but unfortunately, I am pressed for time. No doubt Aunt Peggy must be worried sick about me.

Out of habit, my hand reaches for my face, and my fingers fall flat against the skin of my cheek—a feeling that I'm not used to.

I do a double take before processing what's going on.

_Where's my mask?_

A powerful surge of panic claws at the pit of my stomach, but I swallow down the impulse to run wild. _Think, think. My mask was already cut by that hostile man. If my mask has shattered to pieces from the momentum of the fall later, then why didn't I? _According to reason, I should have at least suffered from the crash as well, so it makes no sense if only my mask breaks.

Does that mean that the mask has not been broken, and instead, it was removed from my face? The mask represents me as the Cat thief. If one is to lay their eyes on it, undoubtedly they would recognize who it belongs to. In presumption that they _would_ recognize it, that means that they cannot resist the urge to uncover my identity. Hence, they know who I am. Who I truly am.

Shit, I cannot allow that to happen.

A bizarre amount of scenarios construct in my mind about what will happened. Even if I had stayed in the manor during daytime for the majority of years, eventually people will acknowledge my occupation, and that's when trouble ensues. I, Annabeth Fidelia Windsor, a _noble_, no less, is a notorious thief who steals from the poor—that is what they will discover. If I'm lucky, I'd be put behind bars. If I'm not, and they hold each and every one of my crime accountable, I can possibly be executed in the most nefarious of ways, and the name of my family household will forever be degraded and put to shame.

Every bit of pride in me will dispel into nothingness as I, incarcerated, will travel the bloody streets in a carriage while a mass number of others watch and disparage from the sidelines. The carriage will stop in front of a certain exterior area. There, along the steps, is the shiny head of the guillotine. The heartless Scotland Yard will release me from the cage, although I remain tied and restricted. They will thrust my head to bottom of the guillotine, and I will lie there in wait for the imminent tragedy. They will read of the list of my crimes and condemn me with ignominy. On the command of the leader, the executor will let go of the rope that raised the suspended blade, and the color of red will stain the steel. A ring of cheers will sound after my soul lifts and dissipates from this damned planet.

I pinch myself to wake up from the horrid imagination.

Fumbling around in the darkness, I reach a set of drawers located on the far side of the room. My blind search for something of use begins, and my hands sweep across the vacancy of the drawers. The feeling of discourage almost fixes in the crevices of my heart when my hand clasps around a cold metal. When withdrawn, a kitchen knife is revealed. Apparently, the people here keeps it lying around for convenience in case a chance comes up that they will have to cut certain fruits and such to accommodate the guests.

I slip out into the dark hallway as stealthily as possible.

_Sadly for whoever I'm about to face, the knife will do a little more than just cutting up apples._

* * *

"Fourteen days, you say?" Alois repeats, while lackadaisically resting the side of his head on his study desk.

"Yes," Claude replies unemotionally, setting a cup of tea before the young Trancy. "In fourteen days, the Queen will return to London. That is the time where we can present to her the Cat, and you can claim your victory."

Alois smiles, and a twinkle of mischief dances in his turquoise eyes. "Ciel will not even see this coming! It is beyond question that he is working his ass off right now to try to locate the Cat. But I already have her in the palms of my hands~"

When his butler pushes the cup of tea closer to him, motioning that he should drink it before it turns cold, Alois waves it away tiredly. "Don't want that." He stretches and sighs contentedly to be able to release the weariness in his muscles. "I'm heading to sleep," he declares, enthusiastically jumping from his seat.

Alois maneuvers to the exit, and with his palm enclosed around the doorknob, he speaks without looking back, "No need to tuck me into bed tonight, Claude! I'm so happy today, so why don't you, Hannah and the triplets take a whole week off?"

A slight, almost inaudible breath of air issues from his stoic butler, as if he is surreptitiously expressing his gratitude for being able to take a break from serving the intolerable Earl Trancy.

Alois smirks and glances over his shoulder. "Just kidding~ I want breakfast in bed tomorrow." He cackles on his way out, despite his butler's lack of display for any disappointment. Still, it's fun to imagine that maybe, just maybe, Claude_ is_ upset.

Alois skips happily to his bedroom, humming as he goes. With one strong thrust, he swings the door open to reveal his luxurious bedroom that is comprised of a spacious room that contains various assortments of rich furniture.

He is about to leap into the soft, silky sheets of his king-sized bed when he feels something cold and sharp pressed against his neck.

"Take another step, and this knife slices off your head," the owner of the knife whispers into his ear from behind him.

Alois did not take long to identify who it is; certainly, undeniably, there are traces of femininity entangled into her voice.

_The Cat._

The young Trancy inclines slightly, ignoring the prick of the knife against his skin, and barks out a loud laugh.


	3. The Escape

**Deal with the Trancy - Chapter 3: _The Escape_**

**Sorry about the late update. There is no definite schedule for this, so this story will be updated at random periods. As always, please enjoy, and reviews are very much appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

I was embarking on a stroll—ah, "stroll" seems quite chimerical since, to be more precise, I was darting and zigzagging through corridors, trying to find an exit while at the same time evade getting caught. The place is, in simple terms, immense—presumably, a manor, since I can correlate this particular place to my own at home. It was easy to become lost and befuddled, and hence I came upon a certain door.

In the midst of debating whether or not to take my chances and enter, a hum, characterized with delight, fills the air. Someone is coming.

Reacting quickly, I lunge myself into the room and hastily shut the door behind me. Then, I perch myself near it, waiting for that someone to either pass by or enter. If it is the latter, it is vital that he or she is pinned for interrogation. Keeping my breath low and even, I clench the kitchen knife close in preparation to attack.

"Hmm, hmm~" the merry voice hums. My eyebrows raise. Surely, this carefree person cannot be harmful in the least. Still, it is hazardous to rush to conclusions, so I maintain my guard.

The door swings open powerfully, and a boy walks in and fails to notice me right behind him, heading towards the direction of the bed. Swiftly, I press the knife against his throat.

"Take another step, and this knife slices off your head," I whisper treacherously.

_Got him._

The victim stiffens at the sudden threat that developed against him. For a split second, the thought bubbles in my head that he is going to cave in, but unexpectedly, he begins to_laugh_. The strange boy cocks his head forward slightly and chuckles, finding something of utmost humor.

"What is so funny?" I demand, perplexed. Was it something I said? Perhaps, it was my manner of speaking?

The odd boy continues to laugh that grating chuckle, which inflicts a disconcerting effect for some reason. The laugh that he is performing indicates a subtle mockery immersed into the layers of his tone. There is a covert sign that he is snickering _at_ me, as if I'm preposterous and on equal terms to that of a _clown_. A cloud of warmth seeps into my cheeks as the discomfort kicks in the longer he laughs. He does not find my threat significant enough to be afraid, or at least, to even feign fright.

"What is so _funny_?" I repeat angrily. "There is nothing funny about a knife pointed at your throat—"

I suck in an abrupt breath of air when his elbow slyly and quickly impacts against the square of my chest. The force causes me to yield a step, which is all he needed to turn around. His knee nudges me back some more until my back is against the wall, and his hand tightly squeezes my palm so that I relent hold on the knife.

The boy then, while in possession of my knife, applies it against my bare neck, with a sardonic smirk plastered on his face. "You're right, dear, there _is_ nothing funny about a knife pointed at your throat, is there?"

"You..." I seethe, my fingers rolling into a fist. I bring it up with the intention of pummeling him into a pulp for manipulating my trick against me. However, he anticipates this move and breezily encloses his palm around my fist to counteract its force.

The queer boy then swats my hand away as if my attempt to overpower him is simply a nuisance, a substandard effort, and nothing else of that would imbue interest. "Now, now, kitty, maybe we need to declaw you." He throws spite into his fake smile.

_Kitty._

A rather unconventional nickname unless he is insinuating at something. It requires little to not time for me to associate 'kitty' with a certain aspect: the Cat.

"What do you know about me?" I demand, thrusting forward once again with my fist, but a sharp slash against the side of neck causes me to stop and wince. A warm substance begins to flow from the wound to my clothing, but my pride, or what is left of it, prohibits me from floundering about in distress.

The boy smirks and presses his forehead against mine menacingly. The feeling of the blade against my skin narrows my breathing into a soft huff. I abstain from lashing out in violence and resort to executing a deadly glare into his light-blue eyes, which seem to be dancing with rapture at the thought of being the dominant counterpart.

After noticing my hesitation, he proceeds in a mirthful manner, "Look, kitty, I know all about you. Your mask, your true identity as a thief, I know it all."

"What do you want?" I growl through gritted teeth. "Money? Well, lemme tell ya, I have none—"

He laughs loudly to drown my voice. "No, my dear. There is something... much more precious than gold..." My skin tingles with the sensation of the knife pricking against it, chipping away the first layers of it smoothly, without entailing blood to be exposed. It is odd to acknowledge that I'm vulnerable like this, as if I am an animal to be toyed with.

"Which is?" I ask warily. My eyes dart toward an opening: his stomach, although this action was implemented with utmost clandestine so that he wouldn't notice. As long as the conversation is prolonged, his defense will eventually subside, and that is when I kick him until he flies to the wall.

Sounds like a plan.

The boy pretends to contemplate long and hard, emitting lengthy breaths and tapping a finger onto his chin thoughtfully as if he is engrossed and preoccupied. "Hm, should I tell you?"

"It's money, isn't it? Even if I don't have money, you will trade me in and receive an abundant amount, nevertheless. Tell me, what's the bounty placed on me by the Yard, eh?"

The boy is silent for a while, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. "I actually don't know," he finally replies, and amazingly, he sounds sincere. "I couldn't care less about those shit." He seems to dislike being clueless for so long, and the cynical sneer returns on his lips. "What I—"

"Where's my mask?" I question harshly, fulfilling the tenacious thought in the back of my mind that urges me to question about my valuable mask's whereabouts.

The sneer on his face appears to struggle in order to sustain, as indicated by the way it twitches with annoyance. The knife against my throat presses deeper until it draws a minor line of blood. "Don't interrupt me, dear. And do you mean the kitty cat one?"

"No, the one that looks like a cow. Yes, the cat one! Where is it?"

"Claude is gonna fix it."

"_Fix_ it?" I echo with disbelief. "So it _was broken_? What have you done?"

His shoulders lift with nonchalance. "It was like that when I saw it. Who cares though?"

Fuming, I raise my voice to present a speech, "_Who cares_? What an utterly ignorant statement! Allow me to elucidate you on the value of my beloved mask! Oh, what can I do without the symbolic mask that represents the very core of my being? One can even estimate that it has sustained and preserved the last part of me that can be portrayed realistically. Without that very sustainability, it is as if I am stripped of my own soul, as if I am torn to shreds! Debilitated I am in the absence of my dear mask! And for you to have so cruelly witnessed its demise, and yet you merely shrug your shoulders—as if the death of my mask is commonplace. _Mundane_, as you may say, but I shall correct you of how wrong you are! How terribly fallacious you appear!"

The boy hastily clamps his palm against my mouth. "You talk too much."

He removes his encumbering hand, and I shrug curtly to express my indifference, adding a narrow of my eyes to enhance my bitterness. "Are you certain that that Claude friend of yours will be able to repair my mask?"

"If it will save you from prattling on and on about how precious it is, then yes, kitty."

"And where's my vase?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!" The screech was sadly irrepressible. I press my forehead against his with as much strength as I can gather in order to get him to waver, and the recipient of the force scowls at the ache that probably blossomed. "Did you sell it for money? People would do that. People I know would definitely do that."

"You seem like a smart girl, kitty," he declares strongly and audibly to cut me off. Uneasiness oozes into me when his expression darkened, despite the fact that he speaks in a, more or less, cheerful tone. "But you're mistaken about one thing. I'm already filthy rich, honey. I don't need to sell the invisible vase of yours to get a few measly coins."

An observation of his room is performed then, and it is palpable how extravagantly furbished it is. Not to mention, how his clothes itself appear to have been made from an elegant fabric, that is soft to the touch. "Are you a noble?"

He rolls his eyes as if it should have been too obvious to even be stated aloud. "I'll let you figure that one out, kitty cat."

"So you are," I conclude with a slight growl to my tone to showcase my exasperation toward how contemptuous he can sound. "What's your name?"

The boy smiles. "Tell me yours."

"I asked you first."

"And if I refuse to answer?"

"Then I will refuse as well."

"In all due fairness, I believe you weren't planning to tell me your real name anyway, kitty."

"How perceptive you are."

"Must you know my name?"

"I'm dying to, yes. I like to make a list of all the people that I would love to beat the crap out of. You might be delighted to know that you're slowly starting to move up the ranks of the people I must murder." I shoot him a saccharine grin, while devising of ways to obliterate him in the most grisly and abominable of ways. The guillotine is not one of my preferences, as it is an expeditious kill. This aggravating boy deserves at _least_ a long and painful death.

The boy allows for a wry smirk to touch his lips for a brief interval before he wags a finger at me mockingly. "Nuh, uh, uh~ Behave, honey. Tell you what. I'll inform you of my name if you ask me sweetly."

My eyebrows pull together in the center. "Sweetly?"

"Yes. If you can woo me even with the sexual appeal you severely lack, I will congratulate you by telling you my name!"

_The sexual appeal you severely lack._

A wide smile manifests upon my face, and he looks a bit taken back, but notes of nothing. "Hey... darling...?" I speak.

His sneer evolves into a grin, and his eyes light up with amusement. "Yes, honey?"

"Here's what I think of you..." I smile at him, and he mirrors my seemingly buoyant expression. Then I inhale deeply and melodramatically before releasing a wad of saliva right into his face. "I think you can just go rot in hell!"

His eyes had shut reflexively when I spat on him. There is a moment of silence before he calmly raises his arm to wipe the substance from his face into the sleeve of his coat. His eyelids snap back to reveal anger and resentment lurking in the depths of his turquoise eyes. Yet, he suppresses it with a fraudulent, meek smile.

Before I fully realize what's happening, the knife slashes the side of my neck down to my shoulders, leaving a long, deep and searing cut. Blood immediately follows the excruciating pain.

"Y-you," I gasp, my hand clasping my wound in an incompetent effort to cease the bleeding. The liquid feels warm and _frightening_ against my own skin. The scent of copper is nauseating, and to restrain from gagging is close to impossible. Yes, I have robbed from others and endured through countless of misadventures, but never was I in any true peril—in exception to the cliff incident, but notwithstanding, I survived that, unscathed. There were also times where I was nearly caught by the Scotland Yard, but fear has never subjugated me for an escape from that is to simply burrow my way into my aunt's house and be safe and protected there. If not, I take on the persona of a noble and feign innocence to evade any suspicions that may arise against me.

But now this is different, intimidatingly so. The boy, he's abnormal. In spite of his sheer enthusiasm, there lies a dark, evil side to him. Now evil is usually correlated to villains in fantasy novels who ostentatiously pull unrealistic strategies to battle against the heroes. The term is overused to the point that it no longer holds any excitement to an experienced reader. However, this boy fits with the ancient definition with of 'evil' quite well, and that is evident if one is to peer into his eyes. They hold no reflection of light, no traces of mercy or compassion for humanity. They are hardened as if they have witnessed the most unspeakable horrors. The eyes seem to compel you to fear's cold, iron grip.

It is difficult to move, to look away, no matter how intense my desire is to do so. A scream begins to climb its way up in my throat as I gape speechlessly. Even the need to cry out in pain from my wound vanishes, replaced by raw agitation.

The knife brusquely clatters to the ground, snapping me out of my stupor. The boy appears to have dropped it deliberately, finding it of no use now. I do not know what he's planning, but he reaches out, and I feel his fingers running along my wound. He inspects the blood staining his hand for a while before smearing it against my cheek. Normally, I would have bitten him and ask what the hell is he doing, but this time, paralysis has taken control of my body, causing any premeditated actions to become null and void.

My teeth grate against one another in disapproval. The newfound weakness is foul and disgusting to bear with, but even with that said, I fail to react to his weird actions.

"The color red looks cute on you, kitty!" the boy chimes happily. He pries his finger into my open wound, educing another cringe from me. "Perhaps, you should—"

The door to his room bursts open, and in bustled a woman with lavender-colored hair and a bandaged eye—instantaneously, the feeling of recognition seizes me, and I discern that she was my guard earlier on.

"M-Master!" the woman cries with anxiety readily stricken on her face. "The girl! She disappeared from her bedroom! She..." Her announcement gradually disintegrates into a meaningful exhale of breath when her eyes, at last, reach me.

"Oh, my God, Hannah, no fucking way," the boy, addressed as 'Master', replies in a deadpanned voice, highlighting his sarcasm.

The woman, identified as Hannah, falters tentatively, while the boy removes his hand from my wound. With one vigorous shove, he pushes me to Hannah.

"Be useful for once and get this bitch out of my sight," the boy orders and looks at my direction with a depreciating gaze. "She talks too damn much for her own good."

"W-wait!" Hannah grips me by the arms and begin to lead me out of his room. Despite my wild struggles, she holds portentous strength—which could have fooled me judging by how she has given me the impression of a weak, introverted and reserved woman.

She drags me along the hallway, and there we encounter three triplets, all of them sharing the same, extraordinary traits such as violet hair and red eyes. I am mistaken to believe that they would at least do something to stop this horrendous scene that consists of me being pulled along against my will; they merely blink at us and whisper among themselves.

Soon after, we reach the room I had resided in, and Hannah tosses me in. I was ready to take her on, but then she gently sits me down and tends to the wound the queer boy inflicted.

The silence is definitely a burden, and so, I try to interrogate her, but she is swift to finish aiding me and departs from my room. My hope to escape is crushed when I hear the lock to the door click in place.

* * *

After a few listless hours, I have been inspecting the room with close scrutiny, and I concluded that my sole chance to escape, no matter how slim, is, of course, the window.

However, the window has a latch that locked it from the outside—only God can answer why someone would install a lock there and not inside the room. Still, I can formulate a sound hypothesis of why that is so; these people are not commonplace—they may have a secret motive to kidnap me for ransom or whatnot.

Either way it will be detrimental to trust them, especially that blond boy.

Looking around, I discover a clutter of stones in a flowerpot, and stealing one, I tap the stone against the glass window experimentally. After several taps to test its rigidity, I am able to deduce that it's quite brittle.

_Good._

My taps increase in strength, and I am cautious to apply pressure against the same surface, that is the bottom right corner of the window. Eventually, a crack manifests, marring the smoothness of it. I then draw back my fist and punch at it, resulting for the crack to widen into a small hole. Inserting my arm through it, my hand snakes around until it captures hold of the latch. With a mere twist of it, I am able to unlock the window.

Now the only thing that is left is to leave. But, of course, I cannot just depart without a dramatic exit. Perhaps, I should leave a note to tease him and his fellow servants.

But before I can go into the details, the door swings open, and Hannah trails in. Hastily, I place the flowerpot on the windowsill to conceal the hole, and I whirl around to face her.

"Ahem, yes?"

Hannah's gaze is cast toward the ground as she speaks softly, "...My master requests for your company for dinner."

I let out a loud, derisive snort to indicate how stupid this is. How can he expect me to yield to him and his absurd food? "Well, you can tell him that—" My stomach emits a low growl. "...I will be there shortly."

The maid nods and shuffles out of the room. I pause to pat the flowerpot. "Wait for me, Peggy. Imma come home soon."

* * *

"Don't you look adorable in a maid's outfit, kitty!" the boy calls exuberantly, waving his fork 'hello', when I assembled onto the seat directly across from him on the dining table. "I did not notice that you were wearing that whore's clothing before. Normally, I'd tell you to burn it, but you look great!"

I grimace. "Compliments from you make me gag."

"Aw, that's not very cute, kitty," he says with an exaggerated pout. "Let me guess, you have never gotten a guy to kiss you. You can't possibly have gotten a kiss with that attitude."

"Well, you're wrong!" I lie indignantly, slamming my palms on the tables, although I swear that my cheeks are boiling in mortification.

He sneers, "Kitty's papa's peck on the forehead doesn't count, honey."

I scoff. "As if you gotten a girl to kiss _you_, jackass."

The boy laughs as if it is the most humorous thing ever stated. He then leans over the table with a smirk. "I should get a kiss from a certain kitty by tonight."

"Gag. I'm trying to eat here." To emphasize, I stab my fork into my steak and stuff a piece into my mouth before chewing ravenously. "Oh, gosh, this is good! I am starving and tired. Sometimes falling down a cliff only to be slashed by a knife held by some demented boy later can really take a toll for your energy."

"How is that even when you eat, you don't close your mouth? You talk so damn much."

"Talking helps me cope with weird situations," I inform wisely and cram another piece into my mouth. "Don't you know that just by babbling it takes a load off the stress?"

"Babbling also takes a load off of what should stay in your mouth to land back onto the plate," he points out, ogling at the portion of steak that I had accidentally spat out while prattling.

"Oops, my bad." I nudge the piece along with my fork until it falls onto my napkin, in which I quickly fold.

"So, kitty, what's your name anyway?"

"Like I'd tell you."

"So you prefer to stick with 'kitty'? Fine with me."

I snort and gobble down the rest of the nutritious food that is on the plate. After doing so, I ingest my cup of tea in a few chugs, and then a sigh of satisfaction issues from me as I pat my well-fed stomach. Reclining my neck back against the chair until my gaze is directed at the ceiling, I moan, "Man, I haven't felt that good in a looong time."

Suddenly, I hear his voice whispering into my ear, "You sound so naughty, kitty."

"What the—" I jump, startled, to see that the boy is right next to me. I glance back and forth from the chair he has deserted and he who is positioned beside me. "How did you..."

The boy rolls his eyes. "You weren't paying attention." A grin fills his lips, and to my astonishment, I feel the cold contact of his hand winding its way under my shirt. "You were too busy being naughty."

"Y-you..."

Before I can kick him to outer space, his hand reaches to my chest, eliciting an embarrassing whimper from me as he twiddles with my sensitive spot. "God... You _are_ flat."

"Die, bastard!" I swipe at his intrusive hand and kick at him furiously, but he nimbly jumps behind me to evade the attack.

"You seemed to enjoy it." With that, he mischievously plants a kiss on my forehead.

"Get off!" I push my chair back to hit him in the shins and then I whirl around to smack him in the face with my fist. "You damn pervert!" Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I scowl at him and begin to thunder up the stairs.

"You're red~" he declares provokingly, and I pause at my tracks to remove one of my shoes. Then, I retract my arm to gain momentum and hurl it at him. He manages to catch it successfully, much to my chagrin. I storm into my room, shutting the door behind me.

There is no friggin' way that I'm staying in this hell for another minute! I hate this place, and I particularly loathe that corrupted boy who appears to possess absolutely no sensitivity at all.

I groan while rubbing my forehead disdainfully. "I can't believe it... The first boy to ever kiss me just had to be _him_." My stupid head keeps visualizing the moment when his lips has pressed against my skin, and a shudder erupts along my shoulders.

I begin cursing under my breath and kicking the bed. Normally, I wouldn't lose my composure like this, but at this point I am shaken. No one has ever dared to lay a finger on me. And now...

"I've been cursed!" I shout to myself, in basic terms. "That wretched kiss from his vile lips has defiled me to an extent unrecognizable! It is likened to a miracle if I can once again gaze into the mirror at my tainted reflection. I can no longer bear the burden of treading under this damn roof."

After the pointless speech, I remove the flowerpot and pull open the window. Grinning as the cool night air flows in to caress my skin, I lunge out and land on the ground below. Not sparing one last glance at the manor, I perform a somersault against the grass and take off.

* * *

Alois along with Claude observe as the Cat dashes across the field and into the depths of darkness.

"Will you allow for her escape?" his stoic butler inquires. Surely, not even Alois would be asinine enough to let such a precious opportunity slip away from their grasp?

His master merely smirks at this and playfully twirls the cat mask in his hand. He then proclaims with such explicitness that rarely anyone will hold a doubt against him, "Don't worry. She'll be back."


End file.
